Hear now the unfolding of these ancient verses, a vivid tapestry of praise, power, and mystery, as sung in the Rig Veda. The greatness of the divine is such that all people, like the restless wind, strive to reach it. Yet it is the inspired sage, through devoted hymns, who truly perceives and honors both Indra and Pūṣan among the worthy. Indra, the mighty, knows the songs of praise, and Pūṣan, too, is ever eager—he urges on the people like a herdsman drives his cattle. We yearn for you, Pūṣan, to be with us—may you fulfill our thoughts and bring the support of the wise. You are the victor in sacrifices, swift as a chariot, the seer chosen by Manu, the friend who restrains and guides the inspired. As lord of the seeker, of the pure and the purified, Vāyu, you cleanse the garments of all who approach. You are the master of rewards and abundance, our steadfast friend—your tawny beard grows, and you stand unassailable. To your chariot, Pūṣan, the goats are yoked; you are the friend of all seekers, ever-present, never failing. May you, strong Pūṣan, harness our chariot of strength, and as the increaser of gifts, hear our call. Then the divine voice declares: among those who are not, I am the one with force, preparing the sacred pressing for the worshipper. I am the giver of curses, the smiter, upholding truth, destroying those who seek evil. If, for battle, I gather those who do not honor the gods, who cling to their own desires, then for you, mighty bull, I prepare the potent Soma, the fifteenth, and pour it out. I do not know the one who claims to have slain the godless in battle; when he calls the fight dangerous, then my bulls speak forth. When I was unknown among the settlements, all the generous were with me. I conquer, I know the secure one, and destroy him, grasping his foot even on the mountain. Neither the settlement nor the mountains restrain me when my mind is set. At the sound of my roar, all ears tremble, and even the sun’s rays draw together. Here I witness those without Indra, drinkers of liquor, struck down by arrows, fallen, those who have betrayed friends or turned away from the young among them. The oxen have departed, life has left; those who came before and after have appeared. Two winds circle around him, but none reach the far side of his domain. The Aryas count the cows yoked for barley; I see them wandering with their herdsmen. The Aryas gather them all, but the master alone, by his will, chooses whom he pleases. When we eat barley among the people, I eat within the enclosure. The yoked one seeks the bringer-down, but the unyoked is harnessed by whoever wishes to drive. Here, for you, I speak truly of what comes from flesh, from two-footed and four-footed beings. Whoever divides the virile one in battle with women—I know how to apportion his share. Whose daughter is born without dice? Who knows her, who desires the blind one? Who will loosen her bonds, who will carry her, who will wish to marry her? How much is a woman cherished by her husband, surrounded by affection and precious gifts? The bride is fortunate when adorned; she herself chooses her friend among the people. The frog has awakened, eating with its head turned, using its head as a shield. Sitting upright, it dries itself; lying flat, it follows the ground. The one with broad shade, without leaves, stands nearby; the mother, pierced, consumes the embryo. The cow measures her calf—by what means did the pregnant cow place it within herself? Seven heroes rose from below, lost from the north, gathering at the end; nine from the west arrived; ten from the east traverse the ridges, eating as they go. Of the ten, one is tawny and common; they urge him on for ritual and crossing. The mother carries the well-nourished embryo in her breasts, delighting in him, bearing him with joy. The heroes cooked the fat ram; the dice were cast, and they sat to play. Two great bows move in purification, cleansing as they go. The shouters go forth, moving everywhere; the cook is absent, and half the wing is missing. The god Savitar proclaims: “Let the running one, the butter-eater, go forth.” I saw a village from afar, carried away, moving by its own law, rolling on wheels. The Arya sharpens the yoke for the people; suddenly, the young ones, measuring with their phallus, are renewed. Two cows are yoked for my delight—do not hinder them, let them refresh me again and again. Even the waters of this one are lost for a purpose; the sun and the monkey have become superior. This thunderbolt, spread wide, has come down from the great dung of the sun. By this, fame is gained, yet there is something beyond. By this, the aged cross over, unafraid. From tree to tree, the cow measures; then the young ones fly forth, devouring men. Let all the world be afraid; offer to Indra and learn from the seer. Among the gods, the first ones stood firm; the cutters rose above them. Three heat the earth and marshes; two carry the dung in their mouths. That one is your life-giver—know him as such. In battle, do not hide from one like him. He makes the sun visible, hides the darkness; revealed, he is not freed from the bonds of the unliberated. Now, every enemy has departed—save for my father-in-law, who remains. Let him eat and drink soma; when satisfied, let him return to his home. The roaring bull with sharp horns stands in the rain, marking the earth’s path. Among all gatherings, may I protect him who fills me with pressed soma. With stones, they press your exhilarating soma, Indra, and you drink. The bulls cook for you, and you eat their offering when invoked with the ladle, O generous one. May this be well known to me, O singer: the rivers carry away the curse that flows against their current. Wolves turn from the lion, fish from the crocodile, jackals from the boar, scorched from the hollow. How have I come to know this—the ripe wisdom of Gritsa, the inspired one? You, knowing, speak to us in due season, O generous one, and tell us what share you would have us keep for you. Thus, even those above in the vast sky increase my strength; I lay down thousands together, for my begetter has begotten me unconquered. Thus, the gods have made me mighty, O Indra, strong in deed, ever manly. I slew Vritra with the thunderbolt, rejoicing, and with my might I opened the pen for the worshipper. The gods came bearing axes, cutting the forest, approaching with their weapons. They placed the well-fixed one in their breasts, and, following the wedge, they set it ablaze. Thus, the story of the gods, the seekers, and the mysteries of life and sacrifice is woven—a sacred song of power, wisdom, and the eternal striving of all beings.